The Execution Ballet
by MoreColourfulMoniker
Summary: "I'm not Skye," she told him bluntly. His fingernails bit into her shoulders hard enough to draw thin lines of blood. "I know." ... They don't get Skye to the GH-325 in time to save her, and May is sick of watching Ward derail.


In the first week, he raged his way through the plane; a barely contained, furious whirlwind.

He punched his way through the glass of the holotable and then went into the cage to beat the unyielding walls with his already-bloody fists. May watched it all on the security feed from the seclusion of the flight deck; and when she saw him slump against the wall, exhausted, she closed the door remotely and activated the soundproofing, and watched as he curled into himself and screamed.

In the second week, he locked himself in his bunk. They heard his muffled cries at night and tried not to wince at the desperation in his voice when he called out her name. He ate and drank when the rest of them were asleep, and refused to look at her bunk.

In the third week, he nearly shot Simmons when she gently suggested they begin to clear out Skye's bunk.

May followed him down into the cargo hold-come-gym and watching him destroy a fifth punching bag. "You're destroying yourself," she called.

He ignored her, carried on viciously beating at the beg with unwrapped, blistering knuckles.

"Ward!" Finally, he turned to her. His eyes were sunken and hollow, surrounded by dark shadows. His hair hung lank across his forehead, thick stubble covered his jawline. His cheekbones, always sharp, looked brittle and deadly. "This isn't what Skye would want," May told him.

He flinched violently at her name and shook his head. "She doesn't want anything," he said. "She's dead."

His voice was harsh from using it to do nothing but scream out the name of a dead girl. "You've given up," she accused him.

He shrugged. "What should I fight for?"

May punched him in the face. His head snapped back and he staggered to keep his balance. "Do you think you're the first person to ever lose the one they loved? Do you think you're even the first person on this plane that applies to?"

She threw a brutal jab at his ribs; he sidestepped and blocked. His training was running him now; she could see it in his precise, practiced movements. They exchanged kicks, jabs, hooks, crosses, blocks. May led him around the cargo hold in a fierce dance, punctuating the sound of flesh hitting raw flesh with sharp, angry words. "You've given up without even a hint of a fight. If Skye were here, she would be ashamed of you-she would pity you."

He leapt at her then, wild and uncontrolled, eyes bloodshot and tears snagging on his lashes. He used nothing more than his height and weight to pin her, and she let him. "But she's not here," he whispered.

May let him bow his head to her shoulder, felt him push his face against her neck, brush her pulse with his lips. They were both sweat-slicked and breathing hard from the sparring match, and Ward's erection pressed firmly into her stomach. His shoulders shook with exertion, and terrible grief.

"I'm not Skye," she told him bluntly.

His fingernails bit into her shoulders hard enough to draw thin lines of blood. "I know."

He refused to look at her when he pushed roughly inside her, closing his eyes tightly against her gaze. She pressed a soft, sympathetic kiss to his throat anyway. You're not the only one on this plane who has lost someone they loved.

They moved together with the perfect grace of two expert fighters, silent except for the sharp gasps they both made when May tilted her hips up against his and dug her fingers into his ass. She whispered something into his ear in Mandarin; and language he didn't speak-but the words were not for him anyway.

It was a coupling born of necessity as much as grief, and guilt, and desperation. Her fingers moved against herself between them, awkward and self-serving. He hadn't the will to please her himself.

I'm not Skye, she had told him, plain and stark.

But it was Skye's name he whispered against the metal floor when he came, full of apology and regret.

May stood before he had recovered fully, pulled her shirt down and her trousers up. "I'm sorry," she said at last. "You're still not the only one on this plane who has lost someone."

"I don't know what to fight for," he admitted, pulling on dirty sweats.

She left without offering him an answer.


End file.
